


The Future Perfect

by myconstant



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Futbal Mini-Bang, Gen, Languages and Linguistics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3578148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myconstant/pseuds/myconstant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gareth's an English instructor, Real Madrid are his students, no one ever does their homework.</p><p>(au fic/art collaboration with leapangstily for futbal minibang round 3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Future Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the futbal minibang fic/art challenge at [lj](http://futbal-minibang.livejournal.com) and inspired by a certain blooper reel from a few years ago ("game of OPP"), recent linguistic happenings on Bale's insta, and the need to channel my own mid-season anxiety into a series of tropes. Huge thanks to the lovely multi-talented **[leapangstily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/leapangstily) ** for providing the glorious gifsets accompanying the fic (seek, dear reader, and you shall find - or jump down to the end for links) and for all of the incredibly helpful reassurance and positivity along the way.

 

 

Despite his occupation, Gareth is actually a numbers person.

It always comes as a shock to people when they find out that he studied maths at university, not history or linguistics or literature. They look at him with newfound suspicion when they realize that the person teaching them the complexities of the English language also voluntarily submitted himself to three years of variables and statistics and bizarre things like partial differential equations. When it finally comes out that he published a sixty page paper on pi, graduated with high honors, and might have actually enjoyed it… well, there’s clearly something wrong with him.

Gareth, if he’s honest, doesn’t find it all that strange. Language and mathematics are both governed by rules and structures, by the idea that there are many ways to say the same thing. Add or subtract words to change the meaning of an expression. Carry the one, drop the e and add ing.

That is not to say that the spiritual link between numbers and words was what lured Gareth into the job in the first place. No, Gareth has spent the majority of his mid-twenties working as a part-time English instructor clocking in a measly sum per hour at one of London’s top private language institutes because he had graduated without a dream in the middle of a deep recession and a thoughtful friend had positioned the particular online job posting like this:

“Get the hang of it in London. Go to Asia. Make bank.”

Three years on, Gareth isn’t in Asia and he’s definitely not making bank. He has, however, gotten the hang of it, or at least enough that when he drops into his boss’s office one morning to report that someone’s misplaced the instructor copy of _Essential Idioms_ , he instead finds out that he’s been hand-selected to go to Madrid for two months and “teach Real Madrid Club de Fútbol their English ABCs before pre-season in Australia” and more forcefully to “reacquaint himself with the sun.”

The last thing his boss tells him before chasing him out of the room with a file folder is that his flight leaves on Monday.

And Gareth, who is good at maths, immediately figures out that Monday means five days from now.

 

 

 

“Do you even speak Spanish?” his sister asks, incredulous, when Gareth calls her up with the news that night.

It is a very fair question. He shrugs as he irons out his shirt for tomorrow and nearly burns his hand. “Yeah, the classes are all immersive,” he tells her, “you know, only English, so that part isn’t quite a problem. I had Spanish for ages in school and then I’ve been doing an exchange with one of the guys at work. I’ll do an hour of English and Ángel will do some Spanish."

“You're saying that my little brother isn’t completely doomed?”

Gareth shrugs again, but this time he catches the edge of his thumb with the iron and the burn sears. “We’ll have to wait and see,” he manages through a clenched jaw.

“Well find time to write us a postcard when you can,” Vicky says. “And give Cristiano a kiss for me.”

When Gareth hangs up to run his hand under the faucet, he mentally reminds himself to do that first thing. He’s already forgotten about the second.

 

 

 

“You will - will need a lift?”

On Friday afternoon, Gareth looks up from rearranging books on the lower shelves to find the new German instructor and the offer of a ride to Heathrow. They don’t really know each other beyond a quick wave in the hallway, but Gareth does know his own mediocre record with the London public transit so he swiftly and thankfully accepts.

On Monday morning, Mesut picks him up in a tiny old red Fiat right outside Gareth's flat. They’re mostly quiet as they plow through the traffic, but Mesut's still pretty good company, humming along to the Clash and tapping his hands against the wheel.

They’re approaching the airport when he turns down the radio and says, “Before here, I was there.”

His consonants are hard and German, the pause between each word long and unsure.

“Where?” Gareth asks blearily, almost falling asleep in his seat because he had stayed up late googling Madrid and _Los Blancos_ and, more embarrassingly, Spanish pick-up lines. He’ll keep that last one to himself.

“In Madrid,” Mesut clarifies, looking a little dreamy. “It is - ”

“It _was_. You were in Madrid in the _past_ ,” Gareth automatically corrects, before remembering that he’s out of class and that Mesut isn’t a student. “Sorry,” he cringes, “that’s a really bad habit.”

Mesut laughs softly as he overtakes a truck. “No need to feel bad. My English is _you know_ , so I always want correction. But I think – I think the present tense. Madrid _is_ an incredible city.”

Gareth smiles, feeling himself warm up to both his driver and the idea of Madrid, and admits the point.

Five minutes later, they’re in the thick of the mess that is the international departures drop-off. Gareth hurries to tuck a small wad of cash for the petrol in the glove compartment, ignoring the semi-annoyed protests from the driver’s seat before hauling his luggage onto the curb. He says danke schon again and again as Mesut waves goodbye, easing onto the accelerator.

Something occurs to Gareth and he suddenly lunges for the passenger door.

The little red car comes to a quick stop. An impatient taxi honks behind them; Mesut makes an irritated noise and honks back.

“Listen, I’m happy to go,” Gareth finds himself saying through the half-opened door. Rain drips down the back of his jacket. “Really, really happy. And I know you’re right – I know it’ll be a good time, that Madrid will be incredible. I’m ready for – I’m just ready for everything, for life... to start.”

Mesut looks at him in the eye for a moment, and then smiles. “This is life, my friend,” he says evenly, without any hesitation between his words. “This is how it goes.” A pause. “And it is danke _schön_.”

 

 

 

If Gareth is even a little apprehensive about leaving his life in London to teach a roster of ultra-loaded world-class footballers the English language for the same nine-pound-fifty an hour in a foreign country on five days’ notice, Madrid does its best to persuade him otherwise.

His flight arrives fifteen minutes early, the city sprawling out below his window like ancient gold beneath the hot midsummer sun. The doors open at the gate and he feels the sudden change in climate from his row 45D seat, the new haze, the unfamiliar humidity. A quick thirty minutes and he’s through immigration, customs, and baggage, rolling his suitcase behind him into arrivals.

He’s always had a quick eye so it’s easy to find his name on the sign. He offers a fast wave at his new colleague, the Spanish for _Hi, my name is Gareth_ on his tongue.

The other man, dark hair and kind eyes, beaming like it’s someone’s birthday, beats him to it:

“Look at your hair!” he says in quick fluent English.

Gareth laughs and brings a slightly self-conscious hand up to the hair in question. He opens his mouth to say something about there being worse first impressions but pauses.

“That’s not a Spanish accent,” he says slowly, cocking his head to the side.

“And that is not an English accent,” comes the playful reply. “Or am I wrong?”

“You’re not,” he admits. “I’m from Wales, but most people can’t tell.”

“Most people, they do not listen,” his colleague says cheerfully before introducing himself as Ricky and moving to shepherd Gareth out of the terminal. “Now, we go. I’m parked outside São Paulo-style and already on my third parking ticket this month.”

His smile must be contagious because Gareth finds himself grinning and obediently following.

 

 

 

Ricky thoroughly beats his GPS by a solid ten minutes, accelerating through yellow lights and weaving through streets and alleys until they pull up in front of an older building that seems to be typical of downtown. Gareth follows Ricky up to the fourth floor and receives a whirlwind tour of his new workplace - _here’s the break room, there’s the copier, the guy on the phone shamelessly winking at you is the scheduler Gonzalo._

Gareth also meets David, the instructor he’s splitting the class load with, and immediately understands two things.

First, despite Ricky's introduction, it is _Day_ -vid, not Da- _veed_ , and second, David's more English than the rainy city Gareth’s just left behind.

The two of them set up camp in the classroom that’s already been assigned to him. Room 11 is bright and sunny with the windows thrown open so they have a clear view of the offices across the way and part of the street below. David thunks a large packet down on the long table and they spend the next three hours sifting through the team roster. There are names, photos, dates, families, past teams and Gareth already knows most of the faces, but almost not the other things - old clubs, new kids, an impressive collection of pet dogs. They’ve just about reached the end when David yawns and leans back in his seat to stretch.

“Thank the heavens you’re here, mate.”

“Happy to help,” Gareth says, still leafing through his packet. “Not a bad place to do it.”

“Yeah, Madrid’s great. I’ve been all over - London, L.A., Milan, but I keep coming back here. Spain agrees with me and the missus.”

A car honks somewhere down in the street. David reclines back until the sunlight through the windows just catches his face. He closes his eyes and adds, “I am really glad you’re here. Genuinely. I had the whole lot to myself last summer. They’re good lads, no mistake, but each class is part-lesson, part-babysitting gig, part-United Nations. It’s exhausting business.”

“I have to be honest,” Gareth says. “I didn’t even know about this whole thing until five days ago. You could say the boss in London has his own ideas about how to… communicate news to his staff.”

“I’ve heard him described as special,” David agrees thoughtfully, nodding without opening his eyes. “I don’t think you are the first to be suddenly packed up and shipped across international borders.”

“No, probably not.”

“Do you follow Real?”

“Spurs actually.”

David snorts. “Forget I even asked. You play at all?”

“Since I was a kid.”

This is clearly a more satisfying answer because David sits up, suddenly alert. “Excellent. Britain need help in the expat league. Argentina are running rampant this year and it has got to be stopped.”

As if on cue, the door flies open (“Speaking of Argentines,” David chuckles) and Gareth is suddenly assailed by a wave of rapid-fire Spanish as Gonzalo pulls him to his feet, slings an arm around his shoulder, and forcibly marches him out the door. Gareth’s Spanish is slow to kick in, but he catches something about _iniciación_ and something more about _cerveza_.

Four hours later, Gareth finishes what is apparently his last beer and waves goodnight to his new colleagues before staggering out of the bar and into a taxi. The sun is down, but the city is still bright.

 

 

 

Beyond a technical knowledge of idioms and verbs, syntax and diction, Gareth’s job is actually pretty simple.

On the most basic level, he is there to make the person sitting across the table feel comfortable enough to speak. Always this means carefully listening, sometimes this means persistently correcting, very often this means ignoring small grammatical errors for the sake of fluency.

It’s taken some time, no doubt about it, and while Gareth doesn’t particularly love the intricacy of English grammar, he’s become pretty good at decoding and explaining it. There are also these little things that happen a few times a week - a student adopting a new aspect or kicking an old habit or finally understanding some elusive rule that had previously made everything so difficult. It’s sappy and sentimental to say, but these are the things that keep him from handing in his notice, that have carried him through days, weeks, months, and then one, two, three years.

So Gareth’s job is, more or less, quite straightforward. That does not mean, however, that it is easy.

 

 

 

He starts his first class, ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, by asking Jesé Rodríguez to introduce himself.

Jesé, too big for his chair and wearing a bright yellow hat with MONEY printed in wide letters across the brim, hesitates and then bursts into laughter.

Gareth waits for him to settle down and give an answer, but when it is clear that he’s not going to get either, he turns to Carvajal and repeats himself.

“I’m Gareth and I’m from the UK. What is your name? What are you from?”

“Dani Carvajal,” comes the gruff response. “Spain.”

Across the table, Isco whoops loudly and Asier breaks into applause, while Jesé throws his head back and laughs even harder. Dani sinks in his chair, glowering.

It takes roughly twenty minutes for Gareth to calm Jesé's giggles and draw out four sets of full-sentence English answers. A full hour later, class is over and Gareth is thoroughly regretting his earlier decision to pass over a second coffee.

“See you later, alligator,” Illarra says on his way out the door.

Gareth runs a hand through his hair and thinks one down, two to go.

 

 

 

Things do not really improve in the afternoon.

His second class is smaller, only three instead of four, and a mix of levels rather than straight beginners. Gareth starts off with the same questions - _what is your name, where are you from, what position do you play_ \- but if the response that morning was too uncontrolled, the response in the afternoon is too restrained.

When Gareth asks how long they’ve been at Real Madrid, there is a sustained pause, long and awkward, before both Toni and James start to answer. At the same time.

“Y-you, please.” Toni says, bright red and stuttering slightly. “Go first.”

“No, you first,” James says, or more, Gareth thinks, pleads. “Please.”

“No, no.”

“You first, you first.”

“James, please go.”

It continues and continues, on and on, until Gareth cuts in.

“Anyone?” he asks blankly.

As it turns out, no one goes first. Toni ends up hunched over his textbook, extremely preoccupied with the index of his book, while James stares fixedly at the floor.

Javier leans back in his seat, catches Gareth’s eye, and smirks.

 

 

 

Ten minutes after class is over, Ricky pops his head into the classroom.

“How’s it going?”

Gareth looks up from staring out the window. He raps the back of his hand anxiously against the table, the sound hollow. “Yeah… it’s going.”

Ricky smiles - when is he not, Gareth wonders - and nods understandingly. “Pipita wanted me to tell you that there's no Cristiano today. He just cancelled a few minutes ago.”

Gareth isn’t sure if the feeling in the bottom of his stomach is disappointment or relief, but whatever it is, he doesn’t think too much about it. He instead goes ahead and packs up his things, mentally running through his list of errands - visit the cash machine, swing by the market. He’s about to head out for the day when he hears someone’s mobile going off. He forgets that he has a new phone for Spain, an old-school Nokia brick, until it rings again for a second round from somewhere deep inside his backpack.

“Hello?” he picks up, just catching the call just before voicemail.

“Hi, is this Gareth?”

The voice on the other end of the line is low and a little gravelly and definitely not anyone he’s ever met, and still… Gareth frowns. There is something familiar about it.

“Yeah, who is this?”

A short laugh. “Oh sorry, this is Cristiano.” Cristiano. _Cristiano._ “Listen, I’m really sorry, but I can’t make it today.”

“Today,” Gareth echoes. “Right. Yeah, that’s fine – word was already sent along. Thanks for call-“

“Where are you living?”

“Where am I -”

Cristiano Ronaldo laughs again, and Gareth feels strangely out-of-body. It's more than a little weird. “I mean, do you have a place to stay? I know David was couch-surfing for a few weeks last year and if you need some help, I know some people who could help you get settled if you need.”

Wow. “Thanks for that. I’m actually in a short-term flat by the school." It doesn’t sound like enough. “All settled,” he adds.

There is noise in the background – people talking, music playing, someone distantly calling _Cris._ Gareth imagines a yacht parked in clear blue waters off Ibiza.

“Great, I just wanted to check,” the voice on the other end says, warm over the slight static. “I remember what it’s like to be new in Madrid. I wanted to make sure they were looking out for you.”

“Yeah,” Gareth pauses, wondering for a fraction of a second if this is really notorious diva monster Cristiano Ronaldo. Deciding that it has to be - Gonzalo must have given him Gareth’s number - he says, “I’m good, thanks. Terrific, actually.”

“Mmm,” Cristiano Ronaldo hums pleasantly. “Good to hear.”

“There’s a basketball court across the street from the flat,” Gareth adds for some completely unknown reason, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling as he cringes.

“Well then,” comes the amused answer, “what more do you even need? I’ve got to run, but sorry again for canceling. See you soon.”

Gareth stares at the phone.

Cristiano Ronaldo is kind of really _nice._

He also speaks kind of really excellent English.

 

 

 

“Dis - oh what the fuck."

Luka Modric, the very same Luka Modric that Gareth had once cheered for at White Hart Lane a few years back, is doing battle with the word dissatisfied.

“Dis - dissatis - “

Gareth waits patiently, perched on the edge of the long classroom table. They are halfway through reading an article on Real Oviedo aloud; Luka is looking a little pale.

Gareth picks up his pencil and taps - _dun, dundun, dun_ \- and Luka glances up. Gareth does it again - _dun, dundun, dun_ \- and he watches for the moment it clicks. He sees it. 

“Dis - _satis_ \- fied,” Luka says slowly. Then again, more confidently: “ _Dissatisfied._ ”

Luka looks up from the article again and Gareth grins, feeling a surge of strange, but not totally misplaced Spurs affection. Marcelo, not on Gareth's half of the roster but here for class anyway, bolts from his seat and pulls Luka into a massive one-armed hug, mussing up his long blond hair and banging a fist against the table and chanting _Senhor Bale, Senhor Bale_.

Gareth must look a little out of his depth because Álvaro just laughs while Sami nods solemnly. 

"Completely normal," he explains, before starting in on the next paragraph.

 

 

 

It takes exactly one week for Madrid to become something familiar.

Gareth's not so great but better than nothing Spanish settles in and soon he’s bantering back with Gonzalo and successfully asking for directions on the street and getting into minor debates over the point of rugby with the taxistas. He adjusts to his flat, gradually remembering to duck on his way out the door to avoid thwacking his head. Looking the other way before crossing the road becomes less of a nuisance, more of an instinct, and he goes to the shops one morning to buy a pair of sunglasses, resigning himself to the fact that June in London and June in Madrid are two very different things.

David brings him along for some pick-up footy in one of the parks and that is what really solidifies the move. The grass is thick and uneven beneath his feet, but Gareth completes an assist and then another, because the precise angle of his boot against the ball doesn’t depend on the country he’s in. Britain takes Canada 3-1.

He’s riding the subway back home when he looks up to see Cristiano Ronaldo grinning at him from the cover of someone’s copy of _Marca_. He’s not exactly sure why, but Gareth smiles back.

 

 

 

“Gareth,” Isco says halfway through their second class, the _th_ of his name too long. He pushes a sheet of paper across the table. “Please. Read.”

Gareth looks down at the two words written in sloppy red ink and frowns. “Very.” and then, “Berry.”

“The same,” Isco replies.

Gareth shakes his head. “It is not the same. _V_ ery and _b_ erry,” he repeats, elongating the v and b. “The pronunciation is different from Spanish. _V_ ery. _B_ erry.”

Isco turns to Illarra. “The same?”

“The same,” Illarra confirms with a somber nod.

“The same,” Dani grumbles, still sleepy at eleven a.m.

Isco looks back at Gareth, his satisfied expression clearly communicating _...well?_

Gareth, however, went to an all-boys' school and can spot a wind-up when he sees one. “You’re going to have to trust me on this one,” he sighs, glancing back down at his book to signal the end of the topic.

“ _I don’t know why we do_ ,” Jesé says in Spanish, slouching in his chair. “ _Look at his hair._ ”

The other three nod thoughtfully, while Gareth silently bristles.

 

 

 

Later, Gonzalo is quick to intercept him in the lobby en route to the break room. Gareth knows that he is too Welsh to ever be confused for a Spaniard, but at least for today, he's in desperate need of siesta.

“No Ronaldo,” the Argentine says. “ _Cancelled._ ”

“Again?” Gareth asks, suppressing both a yawn and his lack of surprise. Once can make a habit.

“Again.” There is a melodramatic sob. “So sad.”

The phone rings and Gonzalo makes a jump for it, pausing momentarily to let the other person speak before launching into quick Italian, wrapping the plastic phone cord around a finger.

Gareth interprets this as the end of their conversation and turns on his heel to find some sleep. He finds David in the break room, standing at a rickety-looking stovetop with a large aluminum moka pot in hand, randomly turning at the stove dials. He turns around at the sound of the door and waves at Gareth. “Looking a little rough today. The boys wearing you down?”

“You were right,” Gareth says, collapsing onto the sofa, the worn-soft cushions curving beneath him. “Part-lesson, part-babysitting, part-UN.”

David nods sagely and then yelps. The stove makes a noise it probably shouldn’t.

“Oh, let me,” says Xabi with a somewhat exasperated sigh, setting down his newspaper and getting up from his chair.

“Careful now,” David teases, “don’t go wrinkling your suit.”

Xabi mutters something inaudible - Gareth can guess - before flicking the dial to the right and then back to the left. The flame settles and he plucks the espresso pot away from David and sets it gingerly on the stove before sitting down and tucking himself back behind his newspaper.

“You know,” Ricky’s voice calls from deep inside the supply closet, ”there are puppets in here. Maybe they can help with your babysitting, Gareth.”  
_  
Puppets._

David grins. “Yeah, I think there’s an Elmo.”

Gareth drags a hand down his face and leans back into the couch. He stays like that, awake but with his eyes closed, listening to the sound of fresh coffee brewing on the stove, Ricky rummaging through old Portuguese materials in the closet, David lightly pestering Xabi about the news, the ever-present traffic in the street.  
_  
This is life_ , he hears Mesut’s voice in his head. _This is how it goes._

 

 

 

Just in case, Gareth keeps his phone tucked in his pocket during his next class.

He knows that it’s completely unnecessary, that there is absolutely no reason for Cristiano Ronaldo to call him again, but he’s professional and it’s a practical precaution. Just in case.

The hour starts and Gareth divides them up into pairs to read over the English transcript of an old Zizou interview. Toni is already conveniently hovering next to James so Gareth keeps it simple, figuring it would be best to minimize the potential for any more flustered embarrassment, and takes the empty seat next to Javier.

“Who will be first?” Javier asks.

“I’ll go f- ”

“No,” He interrupts, giving a small tilt of the head towards his teammates, huddled together over Toni’s book. “They.”

“ _Them._ ”

“Them.”

Gareth glances at James and Toni. “I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

Javier suggestively raises his brows. Gareth immediately understands. 

“It’s called ‘making the first move,’” he says, trying to keep his voice low. He definitely isn’t being paid to teach this. “And Toni. Absolutely Toni.”

His student scoffs. “No, no. Will be James.”

Gareth shakes his head. “Can’t see that at all. I’ve got my money on Germany for this one.”

Chicha visibly perks at this. “How much?”

By the end of class, they’ve conquered some new vocabulary as well as the present perfect and Gareth, once an image of professionalism, has bet a bottle of fine tequila that Toni Kroos will summon up his courage before James Rodríguez.

In Gareth’s pocket, his phone stays silent.

 

 

 

Just like that, one week becomes one month.

It moves both slow and fast, the ceaseless heat making the days drag out longer, while the quick revolving door of classes makes each individual week feel comically short.

He learns things about the people around him, little details that fill out sport superstars and work acquaintances into something closer to friends. David and his beautiful wife have four kids, all of whom, much to David’s great satisfaction, find their English instructor/stay-at-home father the height of embarrassment. Pepe may or may not still tear up from _The Lion King _, Marcelo's got quite a lot of talent for the kitchen, Lucas’s favorite color is bright cobalt blue, Keylor has an unpaid speeding ticket in the American state of New Hampshire. Illarra lingers behind after class one day and tells it without any questions or prompting, explaining to Gareth with the words he has about why he’s here in Madrid and why he really wants to stay and why he maybe can’t.__

Gareth travels on the weekend, Barcelona then Sevilla, Santiago de Compostela then San Sebastian.

Each time he returns to Madrid, the city feels more like home.

 

 

 

On a Monday evening, Gareth has enough.

It could probably get him sacked, but he has enough of the empty silence following a question, enough of watching Toni and James wait for the other to speak first, enough of Javier looking at him as if to say _what’s your brilliant plan now?_

So he ends another dissatisfying (he thinks of Luka) lesson early and takes them to a pub across town. It’s a small dive tucked away in Atletico territory, somewhere no one would ever think to look. He sits them down at an old booth and orders a round of Guinness at the bar before anyone can even try to come up with the word _diet._

It works better than he could have dreamed - not thirty seconds and Javier is asking Toni about the specifics of lederhosen, while James gazes at his dark pint in wide-eyed wonder.

Half an hour later, Gareth is feeling considerably better about this whole situation.

"Hernández," he says, or rather, slightly slurs, “I have a question. Maybe you can help.”

“ _What's up_ ,” Javier sings gaily, slinging an arm around Gareth’s shoulder. On the other side of the table, Toni and James are talking, tucked heads together; Gareth hears James mention something about Brazil. Toni laughs. 

“Hypothetically. If I want to motivate four professional athletes to increase their focus, what should I do?”

Javier doesn’t even take a moment to think about it. He sips at his beer and smirks, like it’s obvious. “Come on. Competition.”

“Oh." It is obvious. “Right.”

Beneath the table, he feels his phone vibrate and he quickly slides it out of his pocket to check the message, thinking it’s either David or Ricky. As it turns out, it’s neither.  
  
**Received 21.6 18:24:  
**       See you this week? - Cris

“Are very happy,” Javier observes.

Gareth quickly tucks his phone back into his pocket. “I appreciate a stout,” he tries to say nonchalantly, nursing his drink. “And you’re missing something.”

Chicha’s face scrunches up - _again_ with the dropped subject – and he grudgingly amends, “ _You_ are very happy.”

“Yeah,” Gareth agrees, patting Javier on the back and turning his attention back across the table to where Toni and James are cracking up over something, practically leaning on each other for support. “I am.”

 

 

 

 __  
So, bingo.  
  
It’s not exactly in his lesson plan, but neither was going out for a secret pint the other evening. Gareth waits for the class to fill in their makeshift boards with various answers to the usual press conference questions. He taps his desk with his knuckles before clearing his throat and asking in his best (worst) Australian accent, “What are your objectives for the upcoming season?”

It's the oldest presser question in the book and Isco’s hand is in the air first, lightning fast. “That is simple,” he says confidently. "We want to win."

Gareth feigns mild disbelief - _to win? shocking._ before gesturing for more. “Anything else? _What_ do we want to win?”

“We want to win trophies.” Dani chimes in, more awake than Gareth’s ever seen him.

“What else?” 

“Titles.” Illarra adds.

“What else?” 

“ _Hearts_.” Jesé, in full-on lady-killer mode, winking playfully at Gareth.

Gareth rolls his eyes, [but can’t hide his smile](http://montosmadman.tumblr.com/post/114119834362/what-are-your-objectives-for-the-upcoming).

 

 

 

A couple hours later, he’s halfway back through the door of his classroom, his attention consumed by the three new packages of dry-erase markers, two textbooks, and steaming hot coffee, all precariously balanced in his right hand, when he notices that Cristiano Ronaldo is fifteen minutes early.

Perhaps even earlier: he’s already standing at the whiteboard with a marker, biting his bottom lip in concentration when Gareth walks in. There are two neat stacks of books and English-language magazines on the table.

“Gareth, I have a question,” he says, completely foregoing introductions like they've always been friends. “These prepositions are killing me.”

“Right to business,” Gareth replies, stuck in the doorway.

Cristiano must hear the slightest note of surprise in his voice because he turns away from the board and smiles, the same bright smile that Gareth has seen on TV and in magazines so many times before. It strikes Gareth as so much more earnest in real life.

“That's how I do things,” Cristiano says as he joins him at the board.

 

 

 

Halfway through class and one thing is already quite clear: Cristiano Ronaldo asks a lot of questions.

“And why is that?” he asks for the tenth time in twenty minutes. They’re still talking about prepositions.

“It’s just how it goes,” Gareth answers, idly knocking his knuckles against the table. “It’s not a perfect language.”

Cristiano nods in understanding before glancing up from his notes. “This thing,” he says, rapping the back of his hand against the wood surface. "You've done it four times."

Gareth recognizes the gesture right away and smiles shyly, a little embarrassed. “Something of a nervous habit. Been doing it since I was a kid.”

Cristiano's eyes are warm, genuine. “I hope I don’t make you nervous.”

“No, it’s not that," and maybe Gareth's lying, but maybe he's not. Maybe he's not sure. "It’s actually pretty great to teach someone who wants to get the grammar rules right. Most people just want the naughty words and slang.”

His student chuckles softly and shakes his head. Looks back at the board and then lets out a small sigh of annoyance. “I’m going to be up all night thinking in this.”

“Thinking _about_ this,” Gareth says, the corners of his mouth turning upward.

Cristiano groans and buries his face in his hands, but when he meets Gareth’s eyes again, he’s nothing short of beaming.

“What was that about naughty words and slang?”

Gareth's smile widens as he relaxes back into his chair. He gives a quick gesture with his head towards the closed door. Through the glass, Nacho and Pacheco are silently laughing over something in the hall. “Yeah, probably not the place.”

“We could make it the place,” Cristiano says with a knowing wink. “I don't drink, but I hear there’s a bar with Guinness on tap across town.”

 

 

 

When Iker Casillas stops him with a hand in the hallway one morning, Gareth’s first thought is _oh shite._

“ _Los niños_ ,” Iker starts. “The kids.”

Gareth nods and braces for it, the moment where he loses his job because he nudged ultra-professional world-class athletes into breaking their diets, because he strayed from the curriculum, because he - 

“They like - _no_ , they love the classes.”

Gareth exhales loudly. This isn’t about the pub. This isn’t about bingo.

“You aren’t serious.” 

“Of course, with my job I am always serious,” Iker says, sounding mildly perplexed. “It is true. Jesé is _mate, mate, mate,_ everyone _mate_. And Dani – already yelling in English during training.” He lets out a low whistle. “You can be proud.”

If Gareth were just a little braver, he would probably hug Iker right there. Instead, he tries to keep his grin from looking too foolish and replies, “Thanks,” before adding, “You’re speaking very well.” It's true.

Iker smiles modestly, almost shyly, batting away the compliment with a hand. In that moment, he looks much younger than thirty-three. “For now. Maybe not enough for the future.”

Gareth isn’t entirely sure what this means, but he’s heard the rumors and imagines he might know. The conversation ends there because Sergio Ramos suddenly materializes, tugging Iker by the arm into David’s classroom, happily scolding him for being late (“ _Hypocrite_ ,” Iker snorts, but he follows him anyway).

Maybe it's the caffeine in his coffee - and he's already on three today - or maybe it's what Iker said, but Gareth's heart is definitely beating a little faster now. There’s some time before his next class so he takes off for the break room, although his timing is less than ideal.

He collides with Ricky in the doorway and there is a small tussle of books and limbs and writing utensils. Gareth quickly darts down to help collect Ricky’s books, rubbing off any dust with the hem of his jumper and handing them back with a friendly _desculpe._

Gareth waits for the smile and he’s not disappointed. Ricky also raises a single curious brow, as if he’s noticed some sort of interesting change, but whatever it is, he keeps his thoughts to himself.

 

 

 

It’s a lot easier to learn when you're talking about something that makes you tick.

For example, Karim answers “What music do you listen to?” by diving into an impassioned twenty-minute tirade on the unfortunate state of the underground hip-hop scene in Lyon: feuds, affairs, stolen mix tapes, all of it. When he resurfaces, Gareth’s got himself an education on French rap subculture and a page full of notes on pronunciation and syntax waiting.

He has to dig a little deeper with Fabio and Rapha, not realizing that he’s found something special until he hits Madrid primary schools and sport history. For Cristiano, it’s the future.

They’re reviewing modals - _would, should, might, may_ written out in print letters on the whiteboard - when Gareth asks, “Where would you like to be in ten years?”

Cristiano’s face brightens. “Ten years is far away for anyone, but it’s an easy question for me. Not because I know exactly where I want to be - there are many places. I would like to be with the people who are important to me.”

It could sound trite and rehearsed, but it doesn't. Gareth is, however, caught off-guard when Cristiano asks, “And you?” Where _would_ you like to be in ten years?”

His response is very well-thought and intellectual: “ _Me?_ Seriously?" 

Cristiano shrugs, a universal symbol for _why not?_ and says, "You."

“I don’t know,” Gareth answers honestly after a moment’s pause. “I still need to think about that.”

In three years of prodding people into using new grammar by asking about their likes and dislikes, their hopes and hesitations, he’s never had anyone point a question back at him before. It's a little unsettling, but not exactly bad.

“[I’ve got time,](http://montosmadman.tumblr.com/post/114119837067/where-would-you-like-to-be-in-ten-years-fake)” Cristiano says.

 

 

 

Among other things, Gareth Bale generally considers himself to be a relatively relaxed person. He’s not really one to lose his cool, he hasn’t gotten into a proper fight in years, and small things, such as Francisco Alarcón's chronic lateness, do not really bother him. He does, of course, have his limits.

So when Isco darts into the classroom a solid twenty minutes late, Gareth nods a quick hello and doesn’t think twice about it. It is only when Isco sits down, muttering a heartfelt apology in soft Spanish to his teacher’s headband does Gareth momentarily lose it.

“ _Leave my hair alone_ ,” he snaps.

There is a small breath of silence and Gareth realizes his mistake.

Then everything completely and totally devolves.

“ _You speak Spanish!_ ” Jesé. In Spanish.

“ _I knew it_.” Dani. In Spanish.

“ _What?_ ” Illarra. In Spanish.

“ _He speaks Spanish!_ ” Jesé, again, Spanish, again.

“ _I **knew** it._ ”

Isco just grins, worryingly mischievous. “May you please repeat again?” In English.

Gareth lets out an exasperated sigh and rakes a hand through his admittedly long hair. He tries to argue that he’s been living in Spain for a month, so of course he speaks some Spanish, but rather than calm the fire, this only fans the flames, because now they want to hear more - _“Say this! Say that! Say eggplant!"_

The wheels have come off the proverbial cart and he can’t think of anything else, so Gareth spends the rest of the hour dictating Victorian verses for _los niños_ to copy down, ignoring the whines each time he finishes a poem and flips to the next page.

 

 

 

James Rodríguez’s left knee bounces so fast that the whole table quakes. It’s been bouncing like this for at least fifteen minutes.

Besides Gareth, the classroom is empty, the din of late afternoon traffic audible through an open window. James makes an angry noise of exasperation as a car alarm goes off on the street, and then exhales, shutting his eyes tight.

“You can do this,” Gareth urges gently, because he knows. He’s been in that same seat before. “Try.”

James looks up at him, his eyes wide. He looks ready to say something and Gareth leans forward slightly in his chair, but then the door opens and Cristiano walks in, on-time for class. He's not even a full step into the room before he sees James, or more specifically, the expression on James’s face.

“Five minutes,” Gareth mouths over his shoulder and Cristiano nods, already turning to leave, but James frowns, looking from Gareth to Cristiano and then back again. He opens his mouth to speak, but appears to think better of it because then he’s closing his book and getting up from his seat, ignoring both of their appeals to stay.

Cristiano watches his teammate walk out of the room. He moves like he means to follow, but then looks back at Gareth, eyes cast down and two hands tucked into his hair, and Cristiano sits.

 

 

 

“How’s that basketball court?” Cristiano asks as they finish up for the day. “Putting it to good use?”

“Unfortunately not,” Gareth admits with a shake of the head. “It’s hard to find the time.”

“The weather’s supposed to be cooler this weekend. What about Sunday at five? I can’t remember the last time I got to shoot hoops.”

Gareth must be staring at him like he’s crazy because Cristiano laughs. “Come on. We’re friends, yeah? It’s not weird.”

“Friends,” Gareth repeats, unsure of what to do with the word until Cristiano looks at him expectantly, and he realizes he’s acting like a massive fool. “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Sure enough, Sunday comes around and the doorbell rings at exactly five o’clock. Cristiano is on his doorstep, incognito in worn-out workout clothes that he probably borrowed off of someone.

“Whoa, you came." 

Gareth had honestly thought that he had gotten over whole CR7 thing. Apparently not.

“It was my idea,” Cristiano points out with a cheeky grin before nodding his head towards Gareth's trainers and making a _chop-chop_ motion that sends Gareth speeding to tie his laces.

A few minutes later, they’re outside beneath the basketball net and Gareth feels kind of unsure and awkward, like he’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do. Cristiano maps the feel of the ball in his hands and Gareth figures that this is actually more absurd than awkward, because this sort of thing doesn’t actually happen outside of the glitzy fantasy of Nike adverts.

His thought process is cut off there because Cristiano suddenly darts right and Gareth instinctively moves to block him, some sort of primal drive kicking in. Another block and suddenly, it’s not one-on-one with Cristiano Ronaldo, it’s just Gareth needing to get the damn ball in the damn net and _win._

His second point comes from an unlikely angle, not looking like it’s going to go in until it does. Cristiano lets out a shout and gives Gareth a high-five before pulling him into a quick hug that feels like the most natural thing.

“Already on fire, Bale,” Cristiano says in his ear, voice low and soft, and something about the proximity must register with Gareth, because he inhales deeply and lets his eyes drift close, mind wandering over what would happen if he lifted his head slightly and -

A memory suddenly comes back to him, vivid and clear, and he trips backwards, briefly losing his balance as his face flushes red.

Cristiano tilts his head to the side, his expression calm, but also a little questioning.

“Just remembered something,” Gareth tries to explain, failing in his attempt to sound casual. “Have to write my sister a postcard.”

“A postcard?” Cristiano echoes, reaching down to scoop up the ball from the ground.

“A postcard.”

Cristiano dribbles the ball idly. He doesn’t look away from Gareth.

“You leave in a week,” he says evenly. There might be a hint of something else there, but Gareth isn't sure.

“Yeah."

“I’ve got one more class on Wednesday.”

“No canceling, Ronaldo." 

Cristiano smirks and aims the ball for the net. Gareth jumps, but it just evades his reach.

 

 

 

“So,” Dani begins on their last day of class. The team flies out for Sydney the next evening, Gareth for London the morning after. “For you. Who is best?”

Gareth looks away from the whiteboard. “The best at what?”

Jesé grins lazily, fully reclined back in his chair. “He means the best student.”

“Not Dani,” Isco sallies, just dodging a hard shove from the next seat.

“What is the question?” Illarra asks.

Gareth surveys the classroom and then turns back to the board. “You’re all rubbish,” he sighs.

Judging the loud round of cheers that erupts over his shoulder, this is apparently the correct answer.

He smiles to himself and wipes the board blank. 

 

 

 

James hangs behind after the other two leave, although Gareth is fairly certain that Toni is loitering just outside the door. He can vaguely hear Chicharito shouting something joyous down the hallway about the last day of school and also the sound of another voice, this one lower and a little gravelly and wholly familiar.

“Thank you,” James says after a moment. His tone is steady, sincere. “Thank you so much.”

If Gareth has to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning, it should be this, the humbling abstraction that is problem-solving on a human scale. He smiles and shakes his head. “There’s nothing to thank me for,” he says.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

It’s in the eighty-first minute that the doorbell rings. Gareth is sitting on the edge of his couch, eyes fixed on the television, grad school applications temporarily abandoned. The match is scoreless. The doorbell rings again.

“I’ll get it,” the voice next to him on the sofa huffs when it’s clear that Gareth has no intention of moving. Gareth mumbles appreciatively, automatically accepting the cold beer handed to him for safe-keeping.

It’s in the eighty-third minute that James Rodríguez wrangles the ball away from the opposition. Gareth is leaning so far forward that he’s about a millimeter from falling off the couch.

“Whoa, bro,” Mesut’s voice calls from the front door. “Who sent you alcohol in the post?" A pause. "Is... is this tequila?”

Gareth quickly looks up from the match, away from where Toni Kroos has just sent a long pass down the right wing, and gapes as Mesut walks back into the room, a large half-wrapped bottle in his hands. Comprehension dawns beautifully, slowly, and surely, and he opens his mouth to answer but can't explain because the television pundits are suddenly shouting and he turns his head back, grinning like a fool, just in time to see the ball arcing up through the air and down into the back of the net. 

Somewhere in Melbourne, under bright stadium lights, Cristiano Ronaldo wheels around the back of the goal. He knocks the back of his hand against the hard wood of the posts and points into a sideline camera.

(end)

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  fic!gifsets at leapangstily's tumblr:  
> [we want to win](http://montosmadman.tumblr.com/post/114119834362/what-are-your-objectives-for-the-upcoming)  
> [seriously?](http://montosmadman.tumblr.com/post/114119837067/where-would-you-like-to-be-in-ten-years-fake)


End file.
